


Everybody's Pickin' Up On That

by MeansToOffend (goodmorning)



Series: Ev'rybody Wants To Be a Cat [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016-2017 NHL Season, M/M, Sex Bets, gratuitous sex, i started writing this in january and you can probably tell, non-catastrophic lack of communication, seriously there is a lot of fucking in this for some reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 07:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorning/pseuds/MeansToOffend
Summary: "The first thing Jonathan Huberdeau discovers about himself post-draft is that he’s pretty good at picking up."





	1. Every Time He Plays

The first thing Jonathan Huberdeau discovers about himself post-draft is that he’s pretty good at picking up. 

Even during his first years in the league, before he’s had much practice with anything besides hockey, it’s almost too easy. Women like him, with his face and his broad shoulders and his solid build, and when they talk to him they love his accent and his sense of humour. He goes home with them whenever he can, in cities across North America, perfecting the art of compliments (along with one slightly more carnal). He puts people at ease just by being himself, with well-timed jokes and exaggerated politeness, and he laughs when they call him charming.

The point is, he knows women well, and he really, really likes them.

He likes Carol, in Calgary, who’s even taller than he is, and who he spends the best part of an hour eating out until her miles-long legs don’t quite work. He likes Brittany, in Boston, who sucks him off until he forgets losing then rides his fingers until they’re completely soaked, who licks them clean and, unbelievably, blows him again. He likes Lynn, in LA, who rides him into the mattress but won’t let him touch her. He really likes Cass, in Chicago, so sensitive he brings her off the first time just by teasing her nipples, and Marie-Andrée, in Montréal, who teaches him to talk dirty in both his languages. 

The one who teaches him the most, though, is Stephanie, in San Jose. When he picks her up, he _literally_ picks her up, carrying her tiny frame piggyback up the stairs to her apartment. Jonny fucks her up against her bedroom wall until he feels like his legs might give out, collapsing back onto her bed when she goes to get cleaned up. His foot touches something half-hidden underneath it, and he flips himself around so he can see what it is. 

That’s how she finds him, lying on his stomach halfway off her bed, harness dangling from his hand, one eyebrow raised.

She flushes. “So I like to fuck guys sometimes,” she says, “but I wasn’t planning- I didn’t mean-”

“I’ll try anything once,” he tells her with an exaggerated wink, and even if he doesn’t end up being that into this, the way her flush changes from embarrassment to arousal is totally enough to be worth it.

As it turns out, he doesn’t actually need to worry about not being into it, because when she lays him out and stretches him, careful and practiced, the slow glide of her fingers just _there_ sends sparks up his spine, makes him arch his back, chasing the sensation. 

“Still good?” she asks him for the sixth or seventh time.

“So good,” he tells her. “I think you should fuck me now.”

She sets him up on his knees and obliges, deep and almost teasingly slow. She presses herself against his back, reaching around to jerk him off with the same slow tempo. It’s very good; he wonders, in the space between strokes, how many times she’s done this before, how long it took her to get this good at it, until she shifts the angle slightly and he can’t think anymore, only feel.

It’s a surprise when he comes, like having the wind knocked out of him by a hit to the boards, and she stills, waiting for his breathing to steady before she slowly pulls out.

“I wish I could stay,” Jonny says as she piles sheets in the washing machine. He really means it, too, but she just laughs, going up on tiptoes to pat him on the head.

\--

He does it to himself sometimes, brings lube on roadies for when they don’t go out or he doesn’t pick up, and it’s nearly as good even if it is only his own fingers.

He kind of wants it to be someone else’s fingers again, or even...

And that thought leads to the second thing Jonathan Huberdeau discovers about himself post-draft: he kind of wants it to be someone’s dick.

Okay, it’s not really a new discovery, but it’s not something he’s ever really let himself think about before, not when women are equally attractive and so much less risky than men, but the playoffs fuck him up enough that he completely forgets he shouldn’t: he picks up Neil and brings him back to the hotel. 

Neil is as tall as Jonny, with an athletic build he doesn’t ask about but does appreciate, especially when Neil uses it to crowd him in the elevator, to push him up against his door the second it closes behind them. He pins him there, kissing a line down Jonny’s jaw until Jonny remembers that he’s big too and pushes Neil back against the bathroom door, undoing his belt on the way. They keep going like that, trading walls and shedding clothes until Jonny’s falling back onto the bed, sheets cool against his bare back, Neil’s warmth over him, reaching between them to jerk them both off.

It’s new and unfamiliar and part of him wants to savor it, but the other part - 

“I think you should fuck me,” he says, and Neil freezes for a moment before nipping at his lower lip.

“I’m not fucking you dry,” he says, like Jonny’s some kind of idiot, which is- well, it’s sort of fair, actually.

Jonny gets his revenge, though, when he bends over to dig through his suitcase and hears Neil choke a little.

“How do you want me?” he asks, throwing the lube at Neil’s face.

Jonny’s a little disappointed when he catches it, but forgets that completely when Neil, confident and without hesitating, says, “You have a really nice ass.”

It’s kind of hot, yeah, but it’s also kind of ridiculous, and Jonny has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. It must do weird things to his face, though, because Neil looks worried and adds, “Unless that’s not...?” He trails off as Jonny completely loses it.

“No, it’s good,” he says when he stops laughing, and Neil rolls his eyes but doesn’t pretend he’s not interested in watching Jonny get back on the bed.

He braces himself on elbows and knees, and he only tenses a little when the bed dips under Neil’s weight, wondering if he’s actually doing this right now, but he thinks, _In for a penny_ , and he must say it out loud because Neil replies, “In for a pound?” in a tone that was probably meant to be sexy. It just makes Jonny giggle a little, high on the stupid pun and the I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this nervousness.

Then Neil gets a finger in him, and he forgets why he was laughing.

It’s good like that, good when he adds a second, a third, almost too good when he twists them and his knuckle drags over Jonny’s prostate and sets his nerves alight. He sighs when Neil withdraws them, and again when he pauses.

“Are you sure?” Neil asks, which is chivalrous, but, Jonny considers, seems a little late.

“Come on already,” he says, wiggling his ass for emphasis. Neil gives it a smack, and Jonny’s still trying to decide whether he liked it when there’s a crinkle and a slick sound and Neil slowly presses into him. 

It doesn’t stay slow for long. Neil picks up the pace, fucking into him hard. It’s right on the edge of overwhelming, and maybe it’s too much, maybe he’ll really feel it tomorrow in a less-than-good way, but right now it’s exactly what he wants. The season is over, too soon, and Jonny can’t bring himself to care about anything but this, right now, especially when he moves, trying to change the pressure on his elbows, and gets Neil’s dick to hit him just right.

It makes Jonny _groan_.

Neil does it again, speeding up a fraction more, and by the time he gets his hand on Jonny’s dick he’s pretty much on a hair trigger. Between one breath and the next, he comes, and Neil fucks him through it and after it until he follows, leaving Jonny feeling a little strung out, a little used, and very, very satisfied. 

Also kind of boneless.

Anyway, Jonny’s sure now that he definitely likes dudes.

\--

When they’re cleaned and clothed again, Jonny walks Neil out, unsure whether he’s doing it to reassure himself that this actually happened or to try to get his number. It’s late enough that the hallway is empty of teammates, anyway.

Except - they run into Barky in the alcove by the stairs. He takes a break from glaring at the ice machine to give Jonny a questioning look, nodding and shrugging when Jonny shakes his head and taps his wrist.

“Huh,” says Neil, when they reach the bottom of the stairwell, and, grinning, kisses Jonny for the last time.


	2. Everything Else Is Obsolete

When the skate comes down on Jonny’s leg, he feels something snap and knows he won’t be playing for a long time.

Or walking, for that matter.

They give him a scooter and tell him to use it, and he does because he wants to get back on the ice as quickly as possible and they know what they’re talking about. By Halloween, he feels good enough to joke about it, even, cheered by good progress and time spent bonding with the other injured guys.

Still, he misses the ice, misses Jags muscling out opponents along the boards and sending the puck to him, misses taking it and making crisp clean passes through traffic, misses watching Barky fake out goalies to finish them off. He’s happy for Marchy, but Marchy’s not him, doesn’t pass like he passes, doesn’t quite mesh with his lineys, no matter what Barky says about French-Canadian Jonathans.

The point is, it’s hard.

\--

It gets a little easier when he’s allowed to ditch the scooter. He can spend more time with the team, standing in the bench and stickhandling, sending passes after practice to Barky and Jags and the other guys who stay late. He can go out with the team after wins and, more often, losses, trying to make one beer last him the night and avoiding pity hookups as much as he can.

\--

By the time World Juniors start, they tell him the boot can come off sooner than they thought, that he can start skating again almost immediately after that, and he’s so excited he speedwalks into the room to make a series of ridiculous bets with his teammates.

He bets Troch help with a prank that the US won’t win; he bets Bjugy a present for the same thing. Lu says the tournament winner will be scored by someone with an alliterative name, and Jonny swears he’ll pick up Lu’s next three rounds if it is. By the end of practice he has wagers going with almost everyone on the team, and he has to put them in his phone before he realises who’s missing. Reims and Jags don’t usually join in on bets, so it’s not weird that they haven’t this time either; it’s the third guy Jonny can’t believe. He honestly can’t remember the last time Barky didn’t bet something completely implausible against him - and win.

\--

When Finland loses to the Czechs, it’s not pretty, but he doesn’t call Barky.

When Finland loses to Denmark the next night, it’s worse. Barky looks pissed at morning skate, and not even Troch is foolhardy enough to bring it up.

That night, Jonny sits in the pressbox and watches as Barky takes a nasty hit from one of the Leafs.

He leaves the ice. He doesn’t come back. They lose.

\--

Jonny goes to Barky’s house the next day, hanging out, getting ice for his back, trying to cheer him up. They put on the game, only to watch Finland slowly sacrifice an early lead to Sweden, which pretty much makes cheer impossible.

“Bet me something,” Jonny says, when he runs out of other ideas.

“Finland goes to the relegation round,” Barky says, clearly still pissed.

“No, come on, something happier than that,” he says, and maybe he’s whining a little, but whatever, it works.

Barky says, “Fine. Canada gets silver.”

“Deal!” says Jonny, before he can change his mind. “Loser does something the winner wants?”

“Fine,” Barky says again, sealing it with a handshake. “Now get out of my house.”

\--

After that, watching the games together becomes a routine. Jonny’s over there for hours at a time, becoming increasingly domestic, fetching icepacks and blankets and every other thing, cheering for Canada and against Sweden and every other team but Finland, really. At some point, he starts thinking of Barky - the cranky, at-home, only-him-and-Jonny-around Barky - as Aleks.

Then he accidentally says it.

“Um,” he says, unsure whether he needs to apologise or if that might be unnecessary.

“Aleks is fine,” Aleks says. “Sasha is better. And Jonny?”

Jonny nods, and they go back to watching Latvia lose tragically. Again.

\--

Finland finally manages to win, even if it’s only against Switzerland, and it obviously softens the blow a lot for Sasha later that night, when they have to watch the rest of their own team win from his couch instead of being part of it.

\--

Because Switzerland beat Denmark, Finland _does_ go to the relegation round. Jonny is twice as glad he refused that bet.

\--

Sasha cheers pretty viciously when Russia takes the bronze from Sweden, face flushed with some kind of muted triumph. It’s kind of sad, the way it reminds Jonny of the cellys he hasn’t been able to have this season.

It’s also kind of cute.

_Really_ cute, even.

Even after his realisation of not-straightness, teammates are definitely still not something he ever lets himself think about, but here they are, sitting slightly too close together on Sasha’s couch with him shouting “Fuck Sweden!” and more gleeful Finnish Jonny doesn’t understand into his ear. In a minute, he’s going to go put Sasha’s icepack back in the freezer for him, and he already knows he’s going to sit even closer than slightly-too-close when he gets back.

So that’s a thing, he guesses.

“We should probably wait to cash in on our bet until we’re both healthy,” he says, when Sasha finally calms down. “I’d hate to make you build my new IKEA bookshelf with your back like that.” But he’s maybe not thinking about furniture anymore when he says it.

“Oh, fuck Sweden,” Sasha says again, and agrees.

\--

“Canada’s going to win,” Jonny says at the end of the first, smirking, but Sasha just smiles and doesn’t rise to the bait.

\--

“Nope,” says Sasha, at the end of the second.

“It’s tied!” Jonny protests, but he’s still a little worried.

\--

“This is a good game,” Sasha says, after regulation, and Jonny can’t argue with that but also wishes it wasn’t going into overtime.

\--

Jonny grabs Sasha’s thigh when Hart makes a huge save.

He doesn’t let go. Sasha doesn’t comment.

\--

As soon as Troy Terry scores, Jonny knows he’s going to be buying Lu’s drinks, and helping Troch with a prank, and giving Bjugs a present, and doing whatever Barky wants him to do.

He still says, “I can’t believe that shit,” when it’s over.

Sasha smiles. “Maybe I make you build _my_ new bookshelf.”

\--

The team beats the Preds the next day. In between buying Lu’s rounds, he sits quietly with the older guys.

It’s something he’s been doing more often since the injury, just enjoying everyone else’s fun, making fun of Mathy every time he strikes out. Tonight, though, he’s watching Barky.

Barky is spending the evening, like most evenings the team go out, listening to someone very drunk and nodding politely at them. Jonny doesn’t know how this always happens. Maybe it’s because Barky is too quiet for them to hear or his accent is too strong. Maybe he’s too polite to tell them to fuck off.

Maybe it’s just how he picks up, Jonny thinks, and really it’s not like he’d actually know. He can’t remember ever seeing Barky leave before him, and now he’s seriously considering the idea, and shit, he’s kind of jealous. 

Wait, does he even have a right to be jealous? It’s not like he’s actually said anything to Barky about feelings or whatever, not like they’re dating or even sleeping together. They’re just teammates, maybe friends, and if Barky wants to pick up women in bars it’s totally not Jonny’s business.

Jonny is also kind of obviously staring now. 

The drunk girl starts crying on Barky’s chest. He pats her reassuringly on the back, looks right at Jonny, and raises an eyebrow. Jonny flushes, turning back to his beer, and tries to figure out what the hell that was even supposed to mean.

He doesn’t see when Barky leaves.

\--

It happens again the next time, too, only this time the drunk girl is very drunk and hitting on Barky pretty hard. He keeps carefully taking her hands off him, and she keeps putting them back, and that’s when he catches Jonny’s eye and mouths the word _help_ over her head.

Lu’s sigh into his drink turns into a snort as Jonny finishes the last little bit of his own, getting up and heading over to Barky. He doesn’t have a lot of time to come up with a plan on the way, but he figures the basics will work.

“Hey, we have to go,” he says, getting close enough to Barky he swears he can feel the heat coming off his face.

“No, he wants to come back with me,” she says, and slides her palms up his chest.

“Goodbye,” Barky says, and he reaches out and laces his fingers through Jonny’s, pulling him along gently when he freezes at the sensation.

They end up back at Sasha’s, talking about everything and nothing, and Jonny falls asleep on the couch and wakes up to breakfast.

\--

It becomes - or maybe just stays? - their routine, hanging out together after nights out with the team. They chill in each other’s houses, talk in hotel rooms when they’re on the road, and it’s relaxing, comfortable. Jonny’s not even bothered by not picking up, really. A few extra minutes in the shower here and there, his own fingers on occasion when he’s alone in bed - it doesn’t really feel like a sacrifice.

\--

They switch to contact jerseys at the same practice, staying late so they can skate with Jags again. They connect like they never missed time at all, and Jonny feels like he’s flying.

He can also feel Barky watching him sometimes; it seems like he’s staring every time Jonny catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye.

In the room, Jonny is stripping down when Jags says something, in what sounds like Russian, that makes Barky flush down his chest.

Barky doesn’t tell him what it was.

\--

Jonny’s first game of the season is Barky’s first game back too, and he still doesn’t feel like he’s missed a step. It’s a four-on-four, late in the second, and when Barky throws him a pass in front of the net it rolls on him but he manages to snipe it home anyway. Barky crowds him into the boards, shouting excitedly into his ear as Daddy and Yands pile on, and Jonny just grins back at him like this is the only place he wants to be right now, because it is.

\--

The goal holds up as the game-winner, and the guys make him buy the first round before he manages to escape. Barky’s being hit on by a guy this time, and as Jonny starts over he sees the guy lean in way too close, whispering something in Barky’s ear that makes him look incredibly uncomfortable. When he sees Jonny coming, he gestures at him, says something Jonny doesn’t catch. Whatever it is, it makes the guy greet him with a look of skepticism that he completely ignores.

“Ready for me to pay up on that bet?” he asks, leering a little because it feels like he should be.

“Very ready,” says Barky, and he fucking _winks_ at the guy as they leave.

Jonny really didn’t know he had that in him.

\--

“So what did you decide?” Jonny asks, sitting next to Sasha on his couch. The TV is on, and they’re ostensibly watching some basketball game, but really they’re watching each other, pretending they aren’t.

“Not sure yet,” replies Sasha. “What do you think?”

Jonny stops pretending he’s not looking at him. Sasha looks right back. They’re sitting too close together again, Jonny realises, but he didn’t notice til now; their faces are close, so close, now, in a way he can’t ignore. For one crazy moment he thinks Sasha’s going to kiss him or punch him or _something_ , but all he does is sit there and look expectant.

“Well?” he asks, and it takes Jonny a minute to remember what the question even was. Sasha is _right there_ , inches away from his face, staring at him so very distractingly while he tries to make his brain work.

“I think you should fuck me,” he says, finally, bracing himself for the punch. 

Sasha freezes, which is not a punch, and his pupils blow, and Jonny takes this as a good enough sign to lean in, close the tiny gap between them, and kiss him. He stays frozen for half a second more, long enough for Jonny to brace himself all over again and wonder if he’s made a terrible mistake, before his lips go soft and pliant and his hands go straight for Jonny’s pants.

Sasha is kissing him aggressively now, like he thinks this can’t possibly last, like he wants as much as he can have before Jonny disappears on him. It’s so good, Jonny doesn’t even notice he’s being tipped backwards until his back hits the arm of the couch. The surprise knocks a gasp out of him, one that makes Sasha freeze again, hands still on Jonny’s jeans button, face still next to his.

“Okay?” he asks, moving as if he’s going to get up. 

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Jonny replies, and pulls him down again when he laughs. He feels like he could do this, just kiss, for another hour and still feel perfectly thrilled with it.

Thirty seconds later, Sasha breaks the kiss to unzip Jonny’s fly, and suddenly he’s equally thrilled to trade handjobs while they make out. He’s just trying to figure out the best way to get Sasha’s dick out when, on a downstroke, Sasha gets his mouth on the exposed head of Jonny’s.

His hips jerk uncontrollably. “Fuck.” 

Sasha pulls off and gives him the same unimpressed look he has whenever Jonny acts like an idiot at practice before pinning him down and doing it again. It’s nice, not having to worry about trying not to choke his partner, and he loses himself in the feeling of warm wet suction and the things Sasha does with his tongue when he stops to catch his breath. 

Jonny puts a hand to Sasha’s head, out of habit. It’s weird, the way his hair is too short for Jonny to tangle his fingers in, but it’s soft and it feels nice so he leaves it there anyway.

That turns out to be a good idea, because Sasha is really good at sucking dick, and it’s not very long before Jonny feels overwhelmed. He’s right on the edge when he remembers he wants Sasha to fuck him, especially because he’s not sure whether this is going to be a one-night-only kind of thing, and he doesn’t want to start that off with that weird shivery feeling he sometimes gets after he comes.

“Arrête,” he says, pushing Sasha’s face off him. He gets a questioning look in return, and has to pause for a minute to make sure he has his English back before he can respond. 

“Lube?” he asks, and Sasha nods, seriously, helps him up and herds him to the bedroom. 

When he returns from the bathroom, bottle in hand, Jonny takes one look at him and blurts, “Take your shirt off?”

He watches him strip, watches his abs flex, and the thickness of his torso is incredibly appealing. Sasha gives him another unimpressed look, and Jonny takes a stupidly long time to realise it’s because he’s still fully clothed.

“Right,” says Sasha, afterwards, gesturing with the lube. “You want me or you?”

Jonny’s been asked plenty of hard questions over the years, from explaining his in-game mistakes to that one about the trains traveling toward each other, but this one is probably the hardest. On one hand he likes being fingered, and Sasha’s fingers are so thick that Jonny really wants to know what they’d feel like. On the other, he can definitely prepare himself faster than Sasha probably would, and he’s a lot more curious about Sasha’s cock than his fingers.

“I’ll do it,” Jonny says, taking the lube from Sasha’s hand, sighing when he uses the momentum to pull Jonny in for another kiss. By the time they break it, he’s beyond ready to get started. Sasha settles on the bed, pants partially unzipped where Jonny managed to get to them, and watches as he sheds the rest of his clothes, kneels on the bed, and gets started. 

This part never feels sexy to him, just shoving lube into himself with the first couple knuckles of his middle finger before he reapplies and really starts in earnest, but Sasha is watching like this is the hottest thing he’s ever seen, and he kind of makes Jonny feel like maybe it actually is. His dick is out, which - when did that happen? Was Jonny too busy staring at his face? A tiny bead of precome glistens on the head.

Jonny wants to taste it. 

He does, flicking his tongue over it quickly, and Sasha lets out an “mm” of pleasure that Jonny immediately wants to hear again.

“Jonny,” says Sasha, and it reminds him of what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Sasha,” Jonny responds, drawing it out a little, as he sinks down onto a second finger. As he starts to move them, thrusting and twisting and scissoring, he keeps his eyes on Sasha, who’s watching him, biting his lip.

Jonny leans in to kiss him, and even though it makes the angle a little awkward his breath still hitches against Sasha’s mouth when he adds a third finger, groaning when he leans back again and takes them deeper, grinding down until his hips jerk.

“Ready,” says Jonny, giving his fingers a final twist.

“How do you want?” Sasha asks.

“You won the bet,” Jonny says, but he’s already tugging Sasha’s pants the rest of the way down, straddling his waist and pushing him back onto the pillows. When he slicks up Sasha’s dick and lowers himself onto it, they both sigh, breath ragged. Jonny feels Sasha go from tense to relaxed under him, watches him bite his lip again. Jonny has to respond with another kiss before he sits up, grinding back on Sasha’s cock almost experimentally.

It’s a little awkward at first, but he starts to get the hang of it, the slight burn welcome in his muscles as he sets a quick pace, sometimes thrusting, sometimes twisting. The feeling of his thighs working is unexpectedly nice; the sound of Sasha cursing, some of the few Finnish words Jonny knows, is even nicer. 

Jonny doesn’t hit himself quite right more than occasionally, but it’s still good, and it’s better when Sasha reaches up and lets Jonny fuck into his fist as he grinds. It’s best of all when Sasha finally loses his patience and gets his feet under him, fucks up into Jonny one, two, three times, coming with a long groan and jerking Jonny off afterwards, breathing hard when Jonny comes across his abs, muscles tensing around his softening dick.

Sasha pets Jonny’s hair as he lays on him, trying to work up the energy to get up. They’re both a mess, but Sasha doesn’t complain, just carefully pulls out, rolls out from under him and helps him off the bed, gets cleaned up and dressed quickly and leaves Jonny some privacy.

Jonny figures he’ll just go home now, not wanting to push his luck, but Sasha is waiting for him when he finally gets out of the bathroom.

He pats the bed. “Come, stay,” he says, and Jonny really, really hopes they’re going to fuck again at some point because this is going to be incredibly awkward otherwise and probably also pretty depressing.

He’s pretty sure they won’t, but he still can’t quite bring himself to say no.

“That was good,” he says, settling in, because he feels like he should say something, not really expecting a response.

He gets one anyway.

“It look like you have fun,” says Sasha, English marred by tiredness or fucked-out-ness or both. He cuddles up to Jonny, cracking open one sleepy eye. “Next time, is my turn.”

It takes Jonny a minute, and Sasha’s breathing is slow and even by the time he gets it. His stomach flips with the certainty of ‘next time,’ with the image of Sasha stretched around his fingers, his dick, but it’s late, and he’s crashing.

Jonny curls into Sasha’s side, tangles their feet together, and, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world, falls fast asleep.

\--

He wakes up to breakfast.

This time, there’s also a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> \- gratuitous sex, gratuitous sex bets, I don't know what I've done with myself  
> \- this season gave me TOO MANY FEELINGS


End file.
